


Coach Bitty

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, NHL!Jack, figure skating coach!Bitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12825750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack is just looking for some quiet ice time when he meets the blond figure skating coach who always keeps his students on the ice just a few minutes too long.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to an anonymous ask for Bitty as something other than a baker or hockey player. I don’t know if figure skating coach is too close for the anon, but I can totally see him going back to the sport he grew up with! It was previously posted on Tumblr.

No. Jack had booked time at this rink specifically so he could be on the ice alone. Here it was, 10 minutes before his time was due to start, and there was pop music playing and no sign of the Zamboni.

Not that he needed a perfectly clean sheet of ice for what he planned to do today – essentially, an hour of laps, to keep up his endurance over the summer – but still. He had booked the ice and trucked himself all the way out to this godforsaken industrial park in East Providence, and he wanted to be alone. And he’d like a clean sheet of ice to start, if only to clear his mind.

The woman looking at her phone in the lobby didn’t even look up as he stalked past her.

There was only one skater, it looked like. That was something. It was a – boy or girl? He couldn’t really tell – in dark leggings and a green sweater. There was a man standing near the boards talking while the kid picked up speed going backwards, sprang into the air, twisted around until they were spinning like an airborne top, and came down again, one leg sweeping around in a wide circle.

The man – not much bigger than the kid, really, but clearly an adult – was all but jumping up and down on his skates and clapping.

Maybe they were done.

Jack pushed open the door between the lobby and the rink itself and said, “Excuse me!”

The man turned with a little jump, waved at Jack and looked back at the kid.

“Look, Mason, you have an audience for your first triple salchow!”

He turned back to Jack with a big smile. “Wasn’t it marvelous?”

The guy obviously wasn’t from Rhode Island, or anywhere in the Northeast.

“Uh, I guess?” Jack said. “But I booked the ice for four o’clock. I don’t blame you for staying until the Zamboni guy kicks you off, but I don’t see any sign of him.”

“Are you going to skate like that?” the man asked him, eyeing his basketball shorts and slides.

“I’ll be changed in a minute,” Jack said.

“Why don’t you just do that, hon?” the man said, his voice dripping with syrup. “I’m sure he won’t keep you waiting. Locker rooms are around there.”

Then he called to the kid, “Great job today, Mason! Grab your stuff and meet your mom in the lobby, all right?”

Jack followed the curve of the boards to a corridor in the back and found an open room. He could hear the Zamboni take the ice before he closed the door.

**********************************

This time, Bitty had half an ear cocked for the outside door.

Sure enough, at five minutes of four, it creaked open, and the same man came in.

Sigh. It looked like he and Mel would have to call it day, and just when she was starting to get it, too.

“Coach Bitty!” Mel was saying. “Were you watching? I think I finally got that tricky bit right.”

“What, hon?” Bitty said. “Sorry – I was distracted. I think our time’s about up. How about you do the step sequence one more time before we pack up?”

“Sure thing, Coach!”

Mel was always a ball of sunshine, made of enough energy to power the whole neighborhood. Not the most talented of Bitty’s handful of students, but Lord, did she try. And she had personality to spare. That would probably be enough for a respectable showing in juniors – in regional competitions anyway – but she likely wouldn’t go much further.

That was fine, though. Bitty hadn’t gone any further that that, and things had turned out fine for him, right? Completely, perfectly fine. Sure, maybe he could have made it into seniors. Maybe. If he didn’t live in Madison, Georgia. If someone had encouraged him to take the leap and go train with an elite coach. If he’d had the courage to ask his parents for that.

He kept his promise and didn’t turn away from Mel as she made her way across the ice, somehow smiling and concentrating at the same time. He heard – and felt – the same man come up beside him.

“I have the ice –”

“Yes, I know, you have the ice at four o’clock,” Bitty said, eyes still on Mel. “We’re almost out of your way, and I know no one has it after you, so if you don’t get your full hour, I’m sure the owner won’t mind if you stay a little longer.”

Then, louder, he said, “That was perfect, sweetheart!”

Mel was sliding over to the door, beaming.

Bitty handed over her skate guards and said, “Remember your off-ice practice and your conditioning program, right? Great practice, Mel. See you Thursday. Your brother should be in the lobby, I think.”

Finally, he turned to the man, who was … not fuming, really. Just grumpy.

“Happy now?” he said. “Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to give people a minute.”

“Fine,” the man said. “I’m going to change. Can you get the Zamboni guy to cut the ice?”

“Uh, sure,” Bitty said.

“Thanks,” the man said, and headed toward the same locker room he’d used the day before.

Bitty shook his head and went to get the Zamboni out. Had the skater not realized that Bitty cut the ice? It was part of his deal with the rink’s owner.

He wasn’t sure why Johnson bought the rink at all. He’d had a windfall – inheritance? lottery? who knew? – and spent it on a private ice rink tucked down a side street in an industrial park. It had rental skates, but no regularly scheduled public skating sessions; a lack of audience seating that made it unattractive for hockey games; and a concession stand that consisted of two vending machines, one stocked with Gatorade and one stocked with protein bars.

But it was perfect for Bitty, who was trying to make a go of it as a figure skating coach, more than a decade after he had originally left the sport. Johnson let him use the ice for next to nothing, as long as he ran the Zamboni around before and after his sessions, and he was welcome to any time not already booked. In the summer, with youth hockey taking a break and no overflow practices at the rink, it was almost always free. Until this week. Johnson had texted him to let him know.

_Jack needs the ice 4-5 pm. TIA for accommodating him_

So the man was Jack, Bitty figured, but he didn’t know why he wanted to skate alone, in hockey skates no less, for an hour every afternoon.

Or why he couldn’t seem to offer a smile to save his life. Bitty had certainly noticed that cheekbones, the jawline, the clear blue eyes. Not to mention the body to die for. But the permanent scowl? That was enough to warn Bitty off.

Bitty wasn’t the naive child he once had been; this Jack was almost certainly straight. Even if he wasn’t, he didn’t seem to want to make friends – not even friendly acquaintances – let alone anything more.

Bitty was just putting the Zamboni away when he heard skates cutting through the ice. He turned to look and caught a surprised expression on Jack’s face when he realized Bitty had been driving the machine.


	2. Part 2

Jack was running late.

It shouldn’t matter; the figure-skating coach seemed willing to take as much time as he could get, and he’d said Johnson wouldn’t mind if Jack stayed a little later to make up a full hour.

But Jack liked to keep to a schedule as much as he could. Especially now, when it seemed that so much of his life was out of control.

He was 33, more than 12 years into what he thought everyone would agree was a successful NHL career. He’d managed to do it on his terms, mostly, skating with the Falconers since he was drafted two years late.

He’d spent those seasons playing in Europe, the first year living with his parents, who picked up and moved to the other side of the world because they didn’t know if he’d make it on his own. The thing was, those years in Europe had made him a better player. He’d learned a different style of hockey, more speed and finesse, and he’d had a chance to grow up a little bit, learn better ways to cope with his anxiety. But his meltdown before the draft when was 18 put most teams off. Neither he nor his parents had ever publicly explained what happened. Maybe some teams would like him better if they knew it was anxiety meds and alcohol instead of illegal drugs; maybe they would be more likely to avoid him if they knew about his anxiety.

The Falconers, though, had taken the time to get to know him, and told him they were hoping he’d be available when their turn came. Well, George, really. She’d been his biggest proponent. Still was. But his contract was up in a year, and his knee never really felt the same after the surgery two years ago, and he knew he had to work harder to get the same results he had in his 20s. Hockey was above all a business, and he could see the business reasons to trade him before he was a free agent. It wasn’t even like he had a family that he would have to move – no spouse who would have to find a new job, no kids to move to new schools. Crisse, if the Falcs were going to trade a veteran, maybe it should be him.

The thing was, though, Jack didn’t want to leave, and if he could help stave it off by making sure he skated enough over the summer, he would. And if all the skating did was help him keep calm, well, that was something.

Jack parked outside the door to the rink and let himself in. There was no one in the lobby, but he still heard the bouncy music that he already associated with the figure skaters.

He pushed through the inner doors and saw man holding a small child up to see over the boards. A lanky skater stood next to them, but on the ice, and all of them were watching the coach from the other days.

He had taken over the middle of the ice and he was spinning so fast his face was a blur. He had extended one leg, and slowly sunk into a one-legged squat, still spinning, then stood up again, still spinning. Finally he came to a stop.

“That’s how it should look, Jamie,” he said, his cheeks pink and eyes bright. Then he caught sight of Jack and his grin fell from his face. “Oh – it looks like we’ve overrun our time. Sorry. We’ll be right out of your way.”

The skater turned to see who his coach was talking to, and the kid’s jaw almost dropped. Crap.

“You’re Jack Zimmermann!” the kid said. “Coach Bitty! It’s Jack Zimmermann! Dad!”

The coach – Bitty? – skated to the side.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zimmermann,” he said. “Off you go, Jamie. He didn’t come here to have you lose your head over him.”

Jamie stepped off the ice, head down. Jack sighed.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Jamie, is it? Are you learning to skate like that?”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. “Trying at least. I wanted to play hockey too, but the last couple of years I’ve just been figure skating. But you’re my favorite hockey player!”

“You really are,” Jamie’s dad said, herding his two sons away from the ice. “He has three posters of you in his room.”

“Yeah?” Jack said. “Do you have another lesson next week at this time?”

Jamie nodded. “I have lessons four times a week.”

“If you bring a poster next Wednesday, I’ll sign it for you,” Jack said.

“Cool!” Jamie said.

Jack watched the family leave while the Zamboni pulled onto the ice. When he went back to pick up his bag and head to the locker room, he confirmed what he had seen the day before. The figure skating coach – Coach Bitty – was driving the machine, erasing the scratches and grooves he and his skaters had etched into the ice.

**********************

On Thursdays, Bitty had Mason and Mel on the ice at the same time.

It wasn’t ideal, but he knew he would have to double up – even triple up – skaters sometimes if he was really going to make a living coaching, especially at this level. It was fine. Mason and Mel both had jumps to work on, and the ice was plenty big enough for them to stay out of each other’s way.

The hour had actually been fairly productive, with Mason landing the triple Salchow twice more and Mel perfecting her single axel. It helped, he thought, to have them working on similar but not identical skills.

At the end of the session, though, he had both of them practicing turns, the better to keep an eye out for Jack Zimmermann. Bitty still didn’t know what Jack was so grumpy about, but he’d been kind to Jamie yesterday, and he clearly wanted to have a clean sheet of ice and to be left alone. Bitty could manage that.

Never mind that Johnson had sold the ice time to Jack, and Bitty had to keep on Johnson’s good side. If the students he was working with now had successful seasons – either as highly-rated novices or new juniors – he would probably be able to pick up a few more. If that happened, and if he kept teaching group figure skating classes at the community rink, and if his eight-year-old Prius didn’t conk out for the next year or two, this coaching thing could work out.

Katya kept telling him it would. He’d gone to her after he managed to graduate from Samwell with much different view of himself and the world than he had when he first left Georgia, but no marketable skills to speak of and asked what it would take to become a coach.

He was already teaching kids’ classes at the Samwell Park District, and as such, was registered with U.S. Figure Skating and with the Professional Skaters Association. Katya helped him figure out what classes to take to increase his rating and used her contacts to find coaches in New England to help.

“Of course I’ll help you,” she said when he expressed his feeling that maybe he didn’t deserve it after up and leaving the way he did, wasting all the effort she’d put into his skating career. “You did what you had to do. You hear me? You did what you had to do. When you skated, you showed up, you worked hard, you never wasted my time. And now look at you, all grown up. You will make a good coach, Eric. You have the skills, the discipline, and most important, the heart.”

His students seemed to like him, despite the effort he demanded, and he enjoyed them. They were bright and vital and if he could help them acquire skills that would build their confidence, so much the better.

Somehow, watching Mason’s twizzles and Mel’s choctaw turns – and ruminating on how, at 28 years old, he spent his days in a dingy rink – he missed Jack’s entrance. He looked up to see him standing by the entrance to the ice, watching the skaters like he was trying to see exactly what they were doing.

“Mr. Zimmermann!” Bitty said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. We’re finished here.”

Jack offered him a small nod. “It’s fine,” he said. “And please call me Jack.”

“Come on, guys, let’s go,” Bitty said. “Thanks for the hard work. Remember we’re going to talk about your music tomorrow. You both have rides here, right?”

“Mason’s coming home with me,” Mel said.

“All right,” Bitty said. “See you tomorrow then.”

Bitty sat on the bench inside the rink to replace his skates with sneakers and then stood to get the Zamboni out.

“Wait,” Jack said, and Bitty startled. “Bi- Coach –”

“You can call me Bitty. Coach is my father,” Bitty said.

“Uh, ok. Why do you run the Zamboni all the time? Doesn’t Johnson pay someone for that?”

“Well, me, in a manner of speaking,” Bitty said. “He discounts my rink fees, and I don’t mind it. There’s something about a fresh sheet, isn’t there?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before heading off to get started


	3. Part 3

When Jack arrived at the rink on Thursday, it was empty. The door was unlocked and the lights were on, but there was no pop music leaking from the rink itself into the lobby, no kid making moves that still looked impossible to Jack on the ice, no short blond guy that seemed perpetually surprised that Jack showed up for ice time that he had booked.

There was a note.

It was taped to the glass on the gate to the ice.

_Mr. Zimmermann,_ the note said, _I moved lessons earlier today so that we wouldn’t impinge on your time and you would have a fresh sheet waiting for you. Take your time – I do have another lesson this evening, but not until 6:30, so there should be plenty of time for me to get in and resurface the ice after you leave. Don’t worry about locking up – I’ll see to it tonight. Have a good skate._

_Eric Bittle_

Well, that was good, Jack thought. The ice was clean and inviting, and there was no one there to make him wait, or to intrude on his thoughts. He could go to the ice the way he had when he was a kid, and there were too many thoughts swirling in his head, letting the scratch of his blades and the rhythm of his breath settle his mind.

Instead of going to the locker room, Jack just put his bag on the bench and slipped out of his slides. He shucked the basketball shorts and pulled track pants on over his boxer briefs and laced his skates, since there was no one there to see. He set his water bottle on the on ledge and pushed onto the ledge.

He let his thoughts drift as he skated. He had told his therapist that this was when he got his best thinking done, in the quiet of an empty rink, with his body running on autopilot. It wasn’t a lie: he’d been skating like this when he decided he still wanted to play hockey after his overdose, and when he chose Europe over the NCAA, and when he entered the draft a second time. But it wasn’t that he was really thinking as much as he was letting thoughts come to him, and eventually he knew what he wanted.

He didn’t think she would understand. He knew his mother didn’t; when he tried to explain, she seemed to think he was making mental lists of pros and cons, putting the same focus and effort he did into hockey, watching tape and making notes and striving for constant improvement. But it wasn’t like that. He had tried making pro-and-con lists and all they did was made him confused about what he wanted, not what some rational robot would want.

The problem was, his thoughts today weren’t about how to maintain and improve his game, or what to do if the team wanted to trade him. He had a no-trade clause; should he invoke it? Or say he would take a trade to a select list of teams? Should he just retire? He had a shelf full of trophies and awards, and the team had taken the cup in his fourth year. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He could get out now, before he was forced out by injury, or worse, by age, playing until no one wanted him.

No, his thoughts today were of a a figure-skating coach who always seemed to have a smile for his young students. Who had a smile on his face the first time he turned to notice Jack, but lost it when Jack told him his time was up. Now Jack had a name for him: Eric Bittle. Two names, actually, because he knew the skaters and their parents called him Coach Bitty.

Jack hadn’t meant to be rude, but he probably was. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he was awkward, and he’d been surprised – unhappily so – to find people at the rink. It was supposed to be like this all along. That’s what Shitty’s friend Johnson had promised when Jack contacted him about skating here.

But there probably had been a simple misunderstanding. He’d never actually spoken to Johnson, after all, just communicated by email and Paypal. Any miscommunication hadn’t been Coach Bitty’s – Eric Bittle’s – fault. Probably.

And now that it seemed Bittle had gotten the message, Jack found he didn’t mind crossing paths with the figure skaters. Even the one who recognized him took Bittle’s hint to be polite well enough that Jack had wanted to reward him. He hoped that kid still had a lesson right before Jack’s time next week. He wanted to keep his promise. Maybe he should talk to Johnson.

But he didn’t want to get Bittle in any trouble if Bittle hadn’t followed directions. Maybe he should talk to Shitty – he knew Johnson. Or he could just write Bitty a note. It sounded like he would be the next person here.

He should call Shitty anyway. He tried to meet up with him every week or so during the off-season. Shitty had been a chance encounter at an arts benefit in Boston where both of them were representing their parents. Shitty had attached himself like a barnacle to Jack, declaring they were the only two people there under 50. Jack had been annoyed at first, but not enough to pry himself away. It turned into a remarkably comfortable friendship, if only because Shitty seemed to understand that Jack was ok being quiet most of them time, and did enough talking for both. Although wasn’t really fair, because Shitty could shut up and listen when Jack wanted to talk.

Jack checked the clock. 5:30. He’d already overstayed his time. Ten more laps and he’d call it a day.

************************************

Bitty looked at the dashboard clock as he turned off the car. 5:42. Jack should be done by now if he showed up at 4 o’clock, which he undoubtedly did. Bitty had never thought of hockey players – thank you, Jamie, for making that connection – as a particularly punctual lot, but apparently Jack Zimmermann was supposed to be some kind of a hockey robot,

“But he was really nice, wasn’t he?” Jamie said when he brought his music to Eric in the morning.

Eric had made a non-committal hum, and Jamie had gone back to the track he’d shared with Eric, talking about how he thought he could use it.

That was actually why Eric came back early; he wanted to play Jamie’s music while he skated to get a feel for where to place the elements Jamie would be doing. Mason was supposed to bring his music tonight, and Eric suspected he would show up with at least three different songs to consider.

Bitty noted the black SUV in the parking lot as he entered, but it could have been there for the building next door. It was a good thing he saw the truck, because he was at least sort of prepared for someone to be in the building.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the sight of Jack Zimmmann’s considerable … assets … staring him right in the face through the glass door to the rink, clad in nothing but very snug black underwear. Jack was bent over, almost like he was mooning Bitty, but he couldn’t know –

No, he was pulling shorts up. Changing. He thought he was alone. And he would be turning any second and Bitty couldn’t get outside fast enough but there was a bathroom off the lobby … and Bitty got the door pulled shut just in time. A second later, he heard the rink door open, then the door to the parking lot open and close.

Thank God.

Bitty cleaned the ice then changed into skates, hooked his phone up to the sound system and started Jamie’s music. Then he made a quick couple of laps, fooled around with some steps, and, when he heard the orchestra swell, launched himself into double axel. He landed it clean, grinning because nothing felt as good as a perfect landing, and made the turn.

Jack was standing at the rink entrance staring at him.

Bitty pulled up, then skated that way. Jack couldn’t be mad he was on the ice now. It wasn’t Jack’s time – and he had overrun by almost 45 minutes.

“Can I help you?” Bitty asked. “Did you need something?”

“Uh, no,” Jack said. “I just meant to leave this note. I was going to do it before, but I forgot, so I came back. I didn’t think you’d be here yet.”

He held out the same sheet of paper Bitty had written on. On the other side, it said:

_Dear Eric,_

_It’s fine if you use the ice right before me. I don’t mind._

_Jack_

“Uh, ok,” Bitty said.

“If it works better for the kids,” Jack said. “And I told that one I would sign a poster next week.”

“Ok,” Bitty said. “Then I won’t change our schedule. Thanks.”

Jack kept standing there.

“Was there something else? Because I do have to work on this program.”

“No,” Jack said. “Wait. Is that Prius out there yours?”

“Yep,” Bitty said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He started the music again and resumed skating. The next time he looked, Jack was gone.


	4. Part 4

Jack was relieved when Bittle was on the ice with a couple of kids on Friday. He made sure not to approach the ice until 3:55, and even then he tried to not scowl when Bittle saw him. Bittle just told the skaters their time was up, nodded at Jack and went to get the Zamboni out.

On Saturday, Bittle was there with the most kids Jack had seen at once. There were four of them, but they weren’t working. They looked like they were playing tag, something no coach of Jack’s had allowed since when? U10? U8?

These kids weren’t much older than that. They seemed younger than the skaters Bittle usually worked with.

Jack watched through the lobby doors long enough to realize that it wasn’t traditional tag, where one person was trying to catch everyone else. No, in this case, all the kids were trying to catch Bittle. And failing.

After a minute or two, Jack decided this could go on for a while, so he pushed the door open. Bittle stopped immediately.

“That’s all for today,” he called loudly enough for all the kids to hear him. “If you can catch me next week, you can skip the power skate then. But for now, I expect to see you all at 9 a.m. Monday.”

There were groans, but they didn’t sound too disappointed.

“Does everybody have a parent or other responsible adult here?” Bittle asked. “If you do, then shoo.”

The kids clomped into the lobby still in their skates, and Jack could only describe the look on Bittle’s face as watched as fond. Once again, Bittle’s cheeks were pink with exertion, and his mouth was shaped in a half-smile. Skating looked good on him.

Bittle turned to Jack, his smile fading.

“I’ll have it done in 10 minutes,” he said.

“You don’t have to hurry,” Jack said.

Then one of the skaters came back, dragging a wheeled gear bag behind her, a worried look on her face.

“Coach Bitty, my dad’s not here,” she said.

“Ok,” Bittle said. “Do you have a phone? Can you call him?”

“No,” the girl said. “I’m not allowed until I’m 11. But I know his phone number.”

“That’s OK. I have his number in my phone. Here, I’ll find it and you can call him, OK? Maybe you can sit right here on the bench while I do the ice for Mr. Zimmermann here. I want you to stay where I can see you, so don’t go in the lobby, and tell your dad he has to come in and get you, all right? If he doesn’t answer, he’s probably on his way. If he doesn’t get here by the time I’m done, we’ll call him again.”

She nodded.

Bittle took another look at here before walking away.

“You have a sweater to put on, Giselle? It’ll be cold in here if you’re not skating.”

When she shook her head, Bittle stripped off his fleece and tugged it over Giselle’s head.

Then he turned to Jack and said, “I really apologize for the delay. Why don’t you go on and get changed and I’ll get the ice done for you?”

Jack was about to offer to wait with Giselle when he remembered that he was a stranger, and she’d probably be more comfortable if he kept his distance.

“It’s fine,” he said. “These things happen, eh? Are you sure she’ll be ok while you clean the ice?”

Bittle glanced at Giselle, holding his phone to her ear.

“She’ll be fine,” Bittle said. “She’s a tough cookie, aren’t you, Giselle?”

Giselle nodded and put the phone down.

“My dad said he went to the car and it had a flat tire,” she said. “He got an Uber and he’ll be here soon.”

“See,” Bittle said. “Everything will be fine.”

Jack changed and came back to the ice in time to see Bittle putting the Zamboni away.

“Giselle and I can wait in the lobby,” he said to Jack. “We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can.”

“It’s fine,” Jack said again. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m not going to be doing any fancy moves like you.”

He tapped Giselle’s shoe with his stick to make clear he was talking to her. She giggled, and Bitty said, “What’s your preference, then, Miss Giselle?”

“Here,” she said.

So Bittle took a seat on the bench next to her. Jack smiled at the picture they made as he skated out; Bittle wasn’t a large man, but he was clearly fit. Giselle was tiny enough that his red fleece dwarfed her.

The next time he thought to look for them, they were gone.

********************************

Bitty didn’t give any lessons or supervise training sessions on Sundays. He wasn’t terribly religious – he hadn’t gone to Sunday services regularly since he left Madison – although, if pressed, he would stay he still believed in a benevolent God who loved people. Even the ones his pastor in Georgia disapproved of.

But he also believed that people needed at least one day a week to rest, and he told all of his students to take Sunday off.

“It’s fine if you go swimming with your friends or play a little pickup basketball or something,” he told them. “But no skating, and no real workouts. You need time to relax and time to play.”

He supposed that applied to him as well, but what he most wanted to do was get out on the ice and just skate without having to teach, or worry if he messed up and set a bad example. He supposed that he did his best thinking on the ice, just like Jack Zimmermann.

Which was not something he should probably even know about Jack. (When had he put Jack on a mental first-name basis?) But Shitty had called last night, asked if he could drive up with Lardo and take Bitty out for a beer, and Bitty wasn’t too proud to accept; his own budget didn’t allow many nights out if he had to pay.

He hadn’t expected Shitty to settle into the booth, three beers cradled in his hands, and say, “So, I hear you’ve met Jack Zimmermann.”

“Um, how did you know?” Bitty asked. “You talked to Johnson?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” Shitty said. “But I talked to Jack yesterday.”

“Wait – how do you know Jack?”

“I met him maybe three, four years ago? At a benefit thing where he managed to look like he was as out of place as I was. Anyway, he said something a while ago about wanting to find an out-of-the-way rink where he could skate without anyone bothering him so he could think, and I hooked him up with Johnson. And now he’s talking about this figure skating coach who’s always there.”

“I try to stay out of his way –” Bitty started.

“I didn’t say he was complaining about you. Actually, he said you do one of the best jobs resurfacing the ice that he’s ever seen, which is high praise. But when I said I knew you, it seemed like he wanted to know more, and I didn’t know how much you would want me to share.”

Bitty thought about it. He had nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what the cretins who locked him in a closet in middle school thought.

He’d come north to Samwell on a hockey scholarship, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d been terrified of being checked the whole season, despite the efforts of his teammates to help him get over it. Then, when he did go ass over teakettle in the second-to-last game and ended up missing two weeks of classes with a concussion, he knew he was done.

But his experience around ice rinks had come in handy, and he got a job at the public rink in Samwell, teaching little kids learn-to-skate, skate guarding, staffing the rental booth, eventually sharpening skates and driving the Zamboni. That helped make up for his lost scholarship.

And the hockey team hadn’t dropped him like he thought they would – at least, not all of them. Shitty and Ransom and Holster seemed to think it was their fault he couldn’t make it, and they started coming to public skate, and Lardo once tried to give him her job as manager. Anyway, that led to where he was now.

He doubted Jack Zimmermann would mind that the figure skating coach and Zamboni guy was gay. At least as long as he never knew Bitty saw his ass. He probably would find Bitty’s checking problem laughable, but who cared? Bitty wasn’t sure why Jack Zimmermann was asking about him anyway; maybe he just didn’t run across a lot of new people. He seemed nicer once he got used to a person.

Bitty had shrugged.

“You can tell him,” he said.

Shitty nodded. “I will if he asks again,” he said. “But I told him to ask you himself.”

Bitty had been running over the conversation in his mind while he stepped across the ice, then serpentined, then tried a jump or three. He finished with a long combination spin.

When he moved from his ending position, Jack was there. Of course. And it was only 3:30.

He skated to the side.

“Hi, Mr. Zimmermann. Did you need something?”

“Call me Jack. And I wanted to talk to you.”

“Ok.”

“Uh – it turns out we have a mutual friend,” Jack said.

“Yeah, I saw Shitty and Lardo last night.”

“Oh, ok. Anyway. I think he said he met you on the hockey team at Samwell? So I was wondering if you wanted to shoot some pucks with me?”


	5. Part 5

Bittle demurred when Jack asked him to shoot at a net with him.

“I haven’t got a stick here, or my hockey skates here,” Bittle said. “And you’re not getting me to put on a pair of those rentals.”

Jack must have looked disappointed, because Bittle went on,”Tell you what. You get started and let me put my things away, then if you want I’ll race you.”

“I’m a little faster than those kids,” Jack said.

“I know,” Bittle said. “But I’m a lot faster than they are. Then, if I can convince you that I’m faster than you, maybe we can work a little on your skating technique.”

“I’m not saying I have nothing to learn,” Jack said. “But I am a professional, and I’ve got, what, six inches on you? But let’s see.”

Privately, Jack thought there was no way Bittle could skate faster than him. Bittle wasn’t skinny, but he was nowhere near as muscled as Jack, and from what Jack had seen, he spent a lot of time standing around watching other people skate, and only a little time demonstrating.

“And if I win, you’ll let me help you, right?” Bittle said.

“What if I win?” The words came out before Jack thought to stop them.

“I don’t know,” Bittle said. “I guess I’ll leave you alone.”

“No,” Jack said. “If I win, you bring your stick and hockey skates tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Bittle said. “But no checking.”

“Of course,” Jack said. “No pads or anything.”

Jack won the race. The first race, when they went once around the rink. Then Bittle said, “I’ll bring my hockey stuff tomorrow. But let’s go again, two laps this time.”

Bittle passed him halfway through the second lap and won going away.

“Now can I give you some advice?” Bittle said.

Jack spent the next 45 minutes doing the kind of skating work he hadn’t done for years, with Bittle checking his balance, making sure his stride was long and even, and making him focus on his edges and he skated forward and backwards and did crossovers.

“Your form is pretty good,” Bittle said. “Loads better than a lot of hockey players. But with the skates, most of y’all start to cheat, come up too much on your toes, and you end up robbing yourself of power. You’ll be stronger – and be able to go longer – if you stay balanced over your blades.”

Jack was absurdly pleased by the praise, faint as it was.

“Have you done this before?” he asked.

“What? Skated?”

“Coached hockey players.”

Bittle shrugged.

“A little, after I left the team at Samwell. Some of them asked me,” Bittle said. “Shitty was one of them, but I’m not sure I helped him much. He just kept asking me to teach him spins.”

Jack chuckled, because he couldn’t see Shitty taking direction very well.

“So you’ll bring your stick tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” Bittle said. “But if you decide you’d rather have the ice to yourself, that’ll be fine, too.”

“I won’t,” Jack said. “Be ready.”

**************************************

Bitty was watching Mason finish a run-through of his short program choreography, marking the jumps, when he heard Jack come into the rink. He was a little early, Bitty thought, so he queued the music again and said, “One more time, with the jumps. You can replace the triples with doubles if you want.”

Mason did it, doing the triple toe but not the triple sal, which Bitty thought was entirely reasonable. Bitty applauded, because Mason had learned the whole routine in record time, even if his steps were a little rough and his combination spin traveled. Those were things to work on.

Then Bitty turned to Jack.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“That’s amazing,” Jack said, honestly impressed with the kid.

“Hear that? Amazing Mason,” Bittle said. “Jack here is good luck for you.”

Mason left and Bitty went to pull out the Zamboni.

“When I’m done, you can pull a net out,” Bitty said. “And I put a bucket of pucks over there.”

Jack was waiting with the net when Bitty closed the door behind the Zamboni, and he had the net in place before Bitty had laced on the hockey skates and grabbed his stick.

Jack looked at it curiously.

“How old is that?” he asked.”I haven’t seen that model for a while.”

“Nine years since I stopped playing,” Bitty said. “But I put fresh tape on.”

“All right,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

Bitty knew he probably shouldn’t be doing this. Leaving hockey had not been a happy experience for him, despite the friendships that had survived. But it was hard to say no to Jack, who wasn’t the menacing bully he first seemed. Now Bitty thought of him as a bit awkward, if unfairly attractive, especially when he forgot to be self-conscious and the right side of his mouth curved up in a smile he wasn’t even aware of. Which was probably another reason Bitty shouldn’t be doing this.

They skated around, passing a puck back and forth, then they did two-man rushes up the ice, then Bitty fed Jack one-timers.

“Let me pass to you,” Jack said.

“That’s ok,” Bitty said. “No one’s going to be counting on me to score in a couple of months.”

Jack made a face that was almost cute.

“But it’s fun,” Jack said. “Besides, I’ll have to pass to people, too.”

“Fine,” Bitty said with a put-upon sigh. But he couldn’t help his grin when buried puck after puck in the back of the net.

After a while, Jack said, “I’ll try to score. You defend.”

“You sure?” Bitty asked. “No pads, remember?”

“No hitting,” Jack said. “Just try to get the puck away from me.”

Bitty acquiesced, but again wondered if he would be this much of a pushover if Jack wasn’t looking at him so intently with those blue eyes. Jack always seemed to give total focus to whatever he was doing, even talking to Bitty.

Jack’s first time up the ice, Bitty succeeded in knocking the puck away with a poke check that seemed to surprise Jack. Bitty circled back to center ice with the puck.

“You bring it up now,” Jack said.

So Bitty started forward, moving fast, juking once around Jack and heading for the goal. Jack turned on all the speed he could muster to get in front, and bumped Eric as he tried to cut him off and steal the puck.

And Eric felt his knees collapse and his skates slide out from under him. His head bounced on the ice – he had the presence of mind to be grateful that he’d interpreted “Bring your stick and skates” to include helmet and gloves as well – and he was staring at the rink ceiling.

A moment later, he was looking up into Jack’s worried face.

“Bittle? Are you ok?” Jack was reaching out – bare-handed, he’d shed his gloves somewhere – and touching Bitty’s face. Bitty fought to keep his eyes open, to keep from leaning into the touch.

Jack wasn’t caressing his face because he cared for him – at least not more than he would care for anyone who helped him get access to ice – it wasn’t because Jack was _attracted_ to him.

But Jack still hadn’t pulled his hand away. He was talking to Bitty.

“– your head all right? I didn’t mean to knock you down. Shit. I’m sorry.”

Bitty had to answer.

“My head’s fine,” he said, pushing himself to a sitting position and momentarily mourning the loss of Jack’s hand.

“Don’t apologize,” Bitty continued. “You didn’t knock me over. You barely touched me.”

“Them why –” Jack looked confused.

“It’s what I do,” Bitty said. “It’s why I had to quit the Samwell team. I was terrified of being checked. Anytime anyone would come at me, I’d just … collapse. I tried to get over it, but I just couldn’t. So I had to quit.”

Bitty hauled himself to his feet, now standing over where Jack was still crouched on the ice.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was nice of you to share the ice. But we – I really can’t do this.”

Then he pushed off toward the gate, stepped off the ice and directly into the lobby, stopping only to grab his sneakers. He untied his skates as fast as his trembling fingers would let him and left them in a heap on the floor, just glad Jack hadn’t come after him.

With his feet shoved unto untied sneakers, he threw himself out of the rink and into his car and drove away, leaving everything – hockey and figure skates, stick, helmet, even his phone – behind. Even Jack.


	6. Part 6

Jack sat back on his heels and watched Bittle – Eric – skate to the gate, his head down and shoulders slumped. Was Eric crying? Why?

Shit. This was Jack’s fault. He had suggested they play hockey. Eric seemed willing enough, even if he had told Jack he didn’t want any checking.

Then Eric got past Jack with the puck, and Jack had tried to get back in front, but Eric was so fast. Jack hadn’t meant to bump him. He thought he had space, but Eric was already there. Jack hadn’t even bumped him that hard. Not hard enough to knock Eric down. Not Eric, who stood as secure on his skates as any of Jack’s teammates.

But Eric hadn’t been expecting it, Jack thought. The contact must have surprised him.

Jack skated to the side and saw Eric on a bench in the lobby, untying his skates. Then Eric shoved his feet into sneakers and walked out the door to the parking lot.

Fuck. Why did Jack have to be so competitive? Why couldn’t he have just let Eric get by him and score? Eric had looked happy when Jack was feeding him one-timers. He liked putting the puck in the back of the net, just like – well, every hockey player ever. He must have been good in college, with that speed. Even after almost a decade away from hockey his hands were good. Why had he left the team? Had he taken a hit hard enough, been concussed badly enough, that it wasn’t safe for him to keep playing? That would make sense, given Eric’s concern about checking.

But Eric still figure skated, still spun and leapt into the air. That had to be dangerous too. It was impressive and beautiful when Eric skated, but it wasn’t precisely safe.

Eric had said he was fine, that his head wasn’t hurt. Jack was pretty sure that was true. His eyes were fine, except for the tears Jack had seen welling up, and he had answered Jack’s questions and seemed coherent. Even if Jack didn’t understand what it was they couldn’t do, or why.

Jack had noticed that Eric went still when he pulled his helmet off and touched his head. It wasn’t an intrusive touch, or it wasn’t meant to be. And Jack hadn’t felt any lumps forming. Just soft hair, shorn close at the back and sides. Maybe Jack had noticed that a bit too much, had thought about touching Eric’s hair under other circumstances, but Eric didn’t know that. Or maybe he did, maybe he figured it out, and that’s why he left. Maybe they couldn’t do this because Eric knew Jack was attracted to him, and Eric didn’t feel that way. Did Eric date men? From the way he looked at Jack sometimes, Jack thought so, thought Eric might even like him, but he could be wrong. But they could still be friends, Jack thought.

Eric would have to be back. His skates were lying the middle of the of lobby floor. His stick and gloves were still on the ice. His phone – crisse, his phone – was on the ledge by the ice. So Jack couldn’t call him, even if he had Eric’s phone number.

It struck Jack as strange that he didn’t have Eric’s phone number. He’d seen more of Eric over the last two weeks than anyone else, and certainly spent more time thinking about him. At first he was thinking about how Eric was in the way, still on the ice when Jack arrived almost every day. Couldn’t he show a little more consideration?

But Eric was just dedicated to his students, Jack knew. He’d seen that for himself, and he admired it. Probably if Jack hadn’t gotten in the way, he’s stay on the ice with his kids until he thought they were too tired to be learning any more, or their parents shagged them off the ice. It wasn’t a far step from admiring his work to admiring Eric himself – it wasn’t a hard step to take, in any case. Jack had always known he liked men as well as women, and he knew he had a type. Eric ticked every box: blond, athletic, smaller than Jack.

It was only a few days ago that Jack had realized that he looked forward to seeing Eric every day. Maybe Shitty had helped that along, asking Jack why he was so curious about the guy that drove the Zamboni. But Shitty wouldn’t tell him much, at least not about Eric’s history. He did go on for minutes about Eric’s baking. “Pies out of nowhere, dude,” Shitty had said. “And they were to die for. Seriously.”

Now Jack had screwed it all up, apparently, before getting a chance to find out more from Eric himself. He’d been looking forward to that, and to maybe seeing him outside the rink. Jack had planned to see if he could buy him dinner, or coffee, or something tonight.

Jack stowed Eric’s hockey equipment in the duffle bag Eric had left, and skated over to pull the net off the ice.

He’d clean up as much as he could, but he couldn’t run the Zamboni. Or, for that matter, lock up the rink. So Eric would definitely be back.

*************************

Bitty drove by the rink after making several loops of the neighborhood. It had been almost an hour, but Jack’s car was still there.

Of course it was. Jack wasn’t going to give up his skating because of Bitty’s freak-out.

That thought wasn’t fair, and Bitty knew it. He might have believed that in the first few days after Jack started coming to the rink, but he knew better now. It was much more likely that Jack simply didn’t want to leave the rink unattended. He didn’t have keys to lock it up.

He could just set the lock from the inside and close the door behind him, but there was no reason for Jack to know that.

Well, Bitty would just wait him out. He drove around aimlessly for a while, cursing himself for a fool, then found himself on 114, headed south. He wound up at Colt State Park, pulling into a spot with a view of the bay and getting out of the car to sit on the hood.

He’d made a fool of himself. He knew that. Falling for someone that had legitimately been in ESPN’s body issue. Yes, he’d looked it up. No, he hadn’t paid the ridiculous price people were charging on Ebay. Falling for somebody, then falling on the ice and exposing all his weakness.

He’d most likely have to see Jack again, too, unless he wanted to give up the arrangement he’d made with Johnson (what was it with hockey players? They seemed to have way too much involvement in his life lately).

He couldn’t afford to move to another rink, even if one had the time available, and Johnson had told Bitty that Jack wanted an hour a day through the rest of the summer.

Bitty could schedule lessons and training earlier in the day or later in the evening, he supposed, and just tell Jack to leave the door open. Bitty could come in after him and clear the ice. But Bitty didn’t even have Jack’s phone number. Shitty would have it, but Shitty might not share it with Bitty. Jack was something of a celebrity.

Which was another reason for Bitty to keep his distance. Bitty was gay, and pretty much everyone who knew him even a little bit well knew it. He’d been worried when he decided to make a career out of coaching kids; would their parents want them to be around a gay man so much? Especially the boys?

He’d been pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t too much of an issue. Mel, one of his first students, was the adopted daughter of two gay men, and once he’d been around a few months, he had parents approaching him somewhat regularly about taking their children on as students. Maybe there were some parents who had a problem, but no one had ever brought it up to them.

Jack, on the other hand, was a popular player in a hyper-masculine sport. He might not be straight (and Bitty had eyes, he could see the way Jack had looked at him), but that didn’t mean he could be out, or even take a chance on dating men. He was undeniably hot, but Bitty wanted more than a hookup, wanted to be more to Jack than a convenient booty-call. That would only break his heart.

Better to keep his distance, keep their interactions as professional as possible. If he couldn’t reschedule, Bitty could start by finishing his lessons at 10 minutes to four; then he would be on the Zamboni when Jack arrived like clockwork at 3:55. And he wouldn’t come back until 10 minutes before his next lesson, whether it was in the evening or the next morning.

His resolve steeled, Bitty got back in the car. He’d have to at least retrieve his phone and lock up, and he should cut the ice so he wouldn’t have to do it in the morning.

Bitty checked the lot when he drove back up to the rink. Jack’s SUV was gone. Finally.

Bitty took the spot next to the door – well, not really, because he couldn’t bring himself to park in the handicapped spot even when the rink was closed, but the next one – and approached the entry. The lobby lights were off, but it looked like the rink lights were still on. Probably because Jack didn’t know where to find the switch.

He let himself in and noticed that his skates were no longer on the floor. A quick look through the door showed him that there was nothing on the ice either; his helmet and stick were gone, as was the net. Jack must have put them all together somewhere. The thought brought a fond smile to Bitty’s lips, but he shoved the feeling away.

He went through the doors into the rink and saw his duffel with his stick lying across the top. He was just bending over to check to make sure his skates were inside when he heard “Bittle” in a low voice.

Bitty whirled around to see Jack, near the wall next to the door, and squeaked. Good lord, how undignified could he be?.

“Eric,” Jack continued. “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

Bitty found his voice. “For what? I mean, besides sneaking up on me just now.”

“I didn’t mean for that,” Jack said. “Although I am sorry I scared you. I meant for whatever I did that made you leave. This is your place, and even if I did something that makes you not want to be around me, I should be the one to go.”

“Well, strictly speaking, this is Johnson’s place, and he said you could skate, so I really can’t make you go,” Bitty said. “And if I made you leave he might get mad and make me leave so that doesn’t really work. But I’ll do better at staying out of your way.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Jack asked.

“It’s what you said you paid for when you first came here,” Bitty said.

Jack’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I know,” he said. “And I do like to skate by myself sometimes. But it’s better if you’re here. Just tell me what I did and I won’t do it again. Is it because I touched you?”

Bitty wasn’t sure how to parse that, exactly – did Jack mean the bump, or touching Bitty’s face, or running his fingers over Bitty’s scalp? Well, one thing led to another, he supposed, so he nodded.

“I should have been more careful,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to bump you.”

So that’s what he meant.

“I know,” Bitty said.

“Then why did you run away?” Jack said.

Bitty shrugged.

“Embarrassed, I guess,” he finally said. “That’s why I had to quit hockey. I had a mental block, sort of, and I’d collapse if someone came at me. Even if they didn’t hit me hard. I kind of got better, but then I did get checked into next week, and I was worse than ever. As the coaches oh-so-helpfully told me, hockey is a contact sport, and I had to leave.”

“That’s awful,” Jack said, and he looked almost distraught. “They should have helped you.”

Bitty shrugged again.

“It was a long time ago. I didn’t think I’d react so badly now,” he said.

“But I surprised you,” Jack said. “Let me make it up to you. Let me get you dinner, or coffee at least.”

Was that flirting?

“I can’t do that, Jack,” Bitty said. He was going to stand his ground.

“Why not?” Jack said. “I promise not to check you.”

That was definitely flirting.

“I just can’t,” Bitty said. “I have to cut the ice.”

“I’ll wait,” Jack said. “I’ve been waiting for three hours. I even moved my car in case it was scaring you away. Another 10 minutes isn’t going to hurt.”

Bitty screwed up his nerve, because this was just too much to take.

“I can’t because I’m gay,” he said.

“Ok?” Jack said.

“And I like you,” Bitty said.

“Ok?” Jack said. “I like you too. So getting dinner should be pleasant for both of us.”

“Jack, you can’t be seen with me,” Bitty said. “People will make assumptions.”

“Ok,” Jack said again. “I mean, most of my team knows I’m bi already. I’m not planning on coming out publicly right now, but I’ve probably only got a year or two left in the league, if that. If I get outed, what are they going to do? Take my Stanley Cup ring away?”

“Wait,” Bitty said. “You mean you want to – you mean go to dinner like a date?”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” Jack said. “Although if you only want to be friends, I can deal with it. I like you, Eric. I think you’re attractive, too, and I’d like to – but only if you want to. Even without that, I like you.”

“God help me, I like you too,” Bitty said. “And, uh, I think you’re gorgeous, and I’d like to – whatever, but maybe let’s get out of this ice rink?”

“Cold?” Jack said.

He stepped closer and wrapped Bitty in his arms and he was so warm. Bitty raised his face to look up, and Jack was looking down, and somehow they were kissing.

Bitty shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. Jack released him anyway.

“Want my jacket while you clean the ice?” Jack said. “Did you ever get yours back from that girl?”

“No,” Bitty said. “I will. But let’s go. I can do the ice in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you like it, or come say hi on [Tumblr](http://https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened%22)!


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